


Old Wounds, New Scars

by Aisalynn



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, Post-Chosen, Season/Series 07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 03:30:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4813310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aisalynn/pseuds/Aisalynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buffy was standing in front of the mirror in nothing but a flimsy white tank top, pulled up to reveal her stomach and the giant, gaping wound in her lower abdomen. Blood was still seeping from it, dripping down into her already stained jeans. The sink was filled with pink tinged water and several white, motel issue wash clothes were already crumpled on the ceramic, ruined. </p>
<p>“Jesus, B,” Faith breathed, “you should be dead.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Wounds, New Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Bechdel Test Fic-A-Thon back in 2010. Prompt: forgive the wounds. Originally posted on my livejournal account.

They came across a motel half way to LA and decided to stop. It was nothing fancy, just a dusty, one story building with chipped and faded painted numbers on the doors, sagging beds with too thin comforters and an air conditioner that rattled but didn‘t actually give them any relief from the heat. But the old man at the desk didn’t ask any questions when Faith and Giles--the least blood stained out of all of them--asked for a couple of rooms. She figured--as he eyed the lurid bruise along her cheekbone and split lip, saying nothing as he handed over the keys--that he needed the business enough to ignore a bus full of beat up and weary high school girls. 

That probably wasn’t a good thing, but she was too tired to care. 

They holed up in the two rooms at the end, connecting door open so those with only minor injuries could run back and forth carrying bandages and painkillers to those with serious ones. General Vi somehow became in charge of this, putting pressure on bleeding wounds and snapping orders in a firm, loud voice, so different from her usual meek tone. Faith smirked at the scene. Give a girl a little taste of power…

The room was packed, too packed. Even leaning against the far corner of the room Faith was being jostled and shoved out of the way, and it made her uneasy, the familiar feeling of claustrophobia creeping up her spine, making her arms twitch with the urge to get out, breathe air not thick with the smell of blood and antiseptic. The adrenaline hadn’t quite faded and she was wired, and what she really wanted was a slay, or a fuck. But Robin was passed out on the bed near the door, pain killers they had to force down his throat finally kicking in, and the way out was blocked by bleeding and frantic mini-slayers, so she’d settle for a cigarette. 

The bathroom door was shut and she hadn’t seen anyone go in or out in the last fifteen minutes, so she thought there was a good chance it was free, or that someone had passed out in it. Either way, she figured she’d be able to flip on the fan and get some peace and nicotine, if only for a few minutes, but when she opened the door someone was already there. 

“Oh,” she said, hand already pulling the door back closed when she saw Buffy. “Sor--holy shit.” She stopped dead where she was, eyes locked on the sight in front of her. 

Buffy was standing in front of the mirror in nothing but a flimsy white tank top, pulled up to reveal her stomach and the giant, gaping wound in her lower abdomen. Blood was still seeping from it, dripping down into her already stained jeans. The sink was filled with pink tinged water and several white, motel issue wash clothes were already crumpled on the ceramic, ruined. 

“Jesus, B,” Faith breathed, “you should be dead.” 

Buffy met her eyes through the mirror, a wry smile curling on her lips. “I know,” she replied. “Several times over.” Then the expression disappeared, replaced by the calm, blank one she’d worn since they got back on the bus and headed away from the crater that used to be Sunnydale. 

Good riddance, as far as Faith was concerned. 

“What do you want, Faith?” Buffy asked tonelessly, eyes focused on the package of sutures she was opening. Her fingers left bloody prints on the paper. 

Shooting a quick glance behind her, Faith stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. She held up the crumpled packet of cigarettes she held in her hand for Buffy to see. “Just a little nicotine, B. Need something to calm the nerves after all this, you know?” 

Buffy nodded but didn’t say anything, but Faith guessed that was as close to an invitation as she was gonna get from her. She flipped the switch on the fan and lit up, taking a long, slow pull from the cigarette and holding it in for a moment, letting the familiar burn soothe away the itching feeling underneath her skin. She exhaled, blowing the smoke directly into the fan, keeping her eyes on Buffy the whole time. 

She’d been quiet since the Hellmouth crumbled in on itself, no long winded, inspirational speeches, no orders for the Scoobies or slayer-ettes, leaving the decisions instead to everyone else. Faith thought it might have something to do with what--or rather, who--she left behind in the Hellmouth, and that she was going into her usual way of dealing--withdrawal--but then again it could just as easily be a reaction to it all finally being over. 

Besides, the big speeches weren’t exactly needed right now. The slayer-ettes were doing fine on their own. 

Faith took another drag and they stood there in silence as Buffy sanitized the needle. She didn’t offer to help, knew it would be unappreciated and besides, Buffy’s hands were steady and calm. Faith knew this wouldn’t be the first time she’d stitched herself back up. Faith had done it herself a few times, after all. 

She’d finished her first cigarette by the time Buffy was two stitches in. Her breathing was controlled and even as she worked, but she was unable to hold back a small hiss each time the needle pierced her skin. Faith dropped the butt to the floor, scuffing it out beneath her boot. 

“You know I’ve been wondering,” Faith said as she tapped another cigarette out of the pack. “You ever think that you just can’t die? You know, for good?” 

Buffy’s eyes flicked up to meet hers in the mirror. “Why? You still waiting anxiously for it to happen?”

She wasn’t. Though she can’t deny that at one point in her life the idea of it would have given her, if not pleasure, than at least relief. Harder to face your own personal demons if the face of them is dead. At least that’s what she thought. 

The First showed her otherwise.

Besides, just a few days ago she felt what it was like to be the only Slayer, to be the one everyone depended on, and it wasn’t something she was in a hurry to experience again, wasn’t something she envied Buffy anymore. But maybe things would be different now, with all the new Slayers to take on the evil of the world. Then again, maybe they wouldn’t. After all, it didn’t make anything easier by having two Slayers, did it? 

She moved away from the door and took a seat on the back of the toilet, back against the wall, feet on the closed lid. “Nah,” she said lightly as she pulled out her lighter. “I told you, B. I’m done with that whole evil thing. Evil rehab and all that.” 

Buffy snorted but didn’t say anything, going back to the stitches instead. 

Faith waited until she’d tied up the next stitch before pressing the matter. “But seriously, do you ever think about it?”

Buffy stilled, the slow, even back and forth of her breathing the only movement. Carefully, she moved her hands to the sink, bracing herself. She met Faith’s eyes again through the mirror. “All the time,” she rasped, breath picking up just slightly with the words, and Faith didn’t say anything, didn‘t know what to say. 

Even after all these years, and the entire thing with the First, it was still rare to see Buffy Summers look scared. 

They were still for a moment, eyes locked through the mirror, Buffy’s wound slowly bleeding still and Faith’s cigarette forgotten in her hand. Then Buffy grimaced slightly and shook her head, breaking the moment of tension. She started working on the sutures again and Faith continued to watch, breathing in the smell of smoke, blood and antiseptic as she got lost in the steady movements of Buffy’s hands through the mirror, listening to the tiny hiss with every poke of the needle, the deep, controlled breath with every pull of the thread. 

Buffy was finished with the stitches and reaching for a packet of gauze when Faith finally spoke again. “You know,” she said conversationally, “that’s going to scar.”

Buffy looked up, eyes flicking to Faith’s stomach, and her fingers twitched around the cigarette, resisting the urge to reach down to where Buffy was looking, as if to hide her own scar. But Buffy’s gaze didn’t linger, and her eyes were soon back on the packet she was carefully opening. 

“I know,” she said.


End file.
